


Gethsemane

by Esteliel



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Judas Returns, M/M, Makeup Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27163999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: He couldn't change what was about to happen. Only—did he have to be alone tonight?
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	Gethsemane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Germinal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Germinal/gifts).



The wind stirred the leaves of the trees around him. A breeze had sprung up, the night air cool against his skin. Peter shifted in his sleep, and as Jesus watched with sinking heart, John stirred, but only to seek out a more comfortable position.

All of them were asleep.

“None of you?” he asked once more into the wind as despair threatened to rise. To have no company on this night of all nights...

He closed his eyes and bent his head. Even now, the image of Judas kept rising up before him: that last glimpse of him from behind, the coldness that had followed after all the fury had spilled out in a hot rush of angry words.

Perhaps if he’d done something different—if he’d reached out for Judas’ hand earlier, if he’d bit back some of his own anger at being betrayed by _him_ of all people...

And yet he knew that he couldn’t change what was about to happen. Only—did he have to be alone tonight? Did it have to be Judas?

Then suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps—hasty footsteps rushing at him, a man running. When Jesus opened his eyes, his heart pounding— _was this it?_ —he wasn’t met by the sight of soldiers.

It was Judas.

Judas came rushing towards him, his face a mask of agony. He threw himself into the mud at his feet with a desperate sound, wrapping his arms around Jesus’ knees as if he were terrified that he’d be pulled off him. Jesus stared at him, uncertain, his hand hovering in the air for a moment.

_Was this how it happened?_

He didn’t care, he realized a moment before he buried his fingers in Judas’ hair. If it had to happen, then let it happen now—earlier than he’d thought it would, sparing him a night of agony that wouldn’t change anything anyway.

“Judas,” he whispered, voice rough. “Will you stay awake with me tonight?”

Judas looked up at him. Jesus could feel his hands shaking where they rested against his thighs.

Then Judas laughed once—a short, bitter laugh, sharp like splintering glass. “If you knew what I’d done...”

“I know,” Jesus said, his fingers still buried in Judas’ hair, trying to resist the urge to grab him tightly, to hold on to him, to feel him close one last time.

“Send me away,” Judas whispered.

Instead, Jesus slowly sank to his knees. Judas shook his head, his eyes dark wounds of despair and guilt, and when he brought up his hands, the moonlight had painted them in silver. Even so he touched Jesus’ face, buries his hands in his hair. Then he bent his head and sobbed once, sharp.

“I don’t know why I did it,” he admitted brokenly against Jesus’ chest. “At the time, I thought... But now I don’t know. I don’t know why. I love you. I’m afraid. If I could undo it—I would do anything to undo it.”

Jesus pulled him as close as possible, held on to him, selfish in this, too.

“I know,” he said. “I know. It doesn’t matter now.”

The pain melted away all of a sudden, the fury at Judas’ betrayal. It was enough that Judas had come to stay with him. That he wouldn’t be alone. 

“Just stay awake with me tonight.”

At his words, Judas looked up, his eyes still full of guilt and despair.

“Let’s leave. Now,” he said, grabbing hold of Jesus’ hand.

He clutched it so hard it hurt, but Jesus savored the pain, the undeniable reminder that this was real—that Judas was here with him, had come back for him.

It was enough. It would never be enough, but all the same, it was enough. It had to be.

Instead of answering, Jesus smiled at Judas. Then a laugh broke free, and if it was half full of despair, it was nonetheless filled with wonder as well.

He’d prayed for the cup to be taken away, but he knew now that he would drink it nonetheless. Still, something had been given to him. How much sweeter to drink the poison in the arms of someone you loved.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said again, then, urgently, “Just stay awake with me tonight. Don’t leave me.”

“Don’t you know what I’ve—” Judas began, and Jesus hushed him with a kiss.

It worked. Within moments, they were clutching at each other, Judas’ hands beneath his garments, those silver-painted fingers hot against his skin, tracing him first with reverence, then unbearable hunger as Judas trembled against him.

He let Judas touch him, kiss him all over, until at last Judas’ mouth settled between his legs and Jesus had to stifle the sounds that wanted to break free with his own hand. He _wanted._ He wanted Judas in his arms, the press of flesh against flesh, hot, sweat-slick skin against his own—but this was a prayer too, and he didn’t begrudge it Judas.

Long minutes later he pull Judas away from him, his own hands shaking as he pulled on the fabric that covered Judas.

“Just let me do this for you—” Judas said, voice rough and lips swollen, and Jesus shook his head, selfish in this, too

It was the last time— _let me have this, let me have this_ —

He couldn’t say if he’d said it out loud, but Judas scrambled out of his clothes and came into his arms urgently, smothering his mouth with hungry kisses. Then, at last, Jesus could feel him against his body, hard and hot and alive, as desperate for it as Jesus was.

There was nothing but spit to ease the way, but it was enough.

Judas was inside him, hard and hot, panting in despair against his neck. Jesus tightened his arms around him, clutching at him so hard he was afraid his nails would leave bloody marks on Judas’ back, and yet he couldn’t stop. Every thrust made him gasp, but the tears in his eyes weren’t from discomfort or even the nearly unbearable pleasure—they were rising because he had Judas here in his arms, warm and alive, when he hadn’t dared to believe anymore. When he’d almost believed that he’d been forced to sacrifice that love, too.

It wouldn’t change what came, he knew that even when they kissed, breathless and desperate. Nothing could change it. But perhaps it was enough to have this one moment.

They rested next to each other when it was done. He felt sore inside-out as though a great fire had burned through him and left charred nerves. Judas reached out for his hand, and he let him kiss it and bathe it with his tears. He wanted to hold onto Judas, loving him the way one man loved another—there was nothing holy in that, a sweaty, selfish, human coil of love of lust and need and fear. And all the same it was love.

With Judas breathing next to him, he could see his path unfold—different paths than what he had seen before, yet all of them torment regardless:

_Judas holds his hand, refusing to let go when a group of Roman soldiers surrounds him, dying here in this very grove with a spear stabbed through his heart—_

_Judas bound and on his knees next to him in the court of a Roman official, his features nearly unrecognizable with blood, his body convulsing in agony every time the lash falls down onto both of them—_

_Judas nailed to a cross, the traitor taking the place of the thief to his right—_

_The agony of death prolonged by having to watch Judas’ suffering, every heartbeat stretching into eternity—_

“Let us go away,” Judas murmured intently against his skin. “Let us just leave. If we hide for a while—”

Jesus shook his head, but he allowed Judas to hold him close, breathing in the night air and the scent of Judas’ hair and their drying sweat.

It would not be long now.

He rolled on top of Judas and kissed him lightly, lingering in the kiss until he felt half-drunk with it, his fingers tracing the familiar landscape of Judas’ face.

“Wait for me,” he told him gently, hearing in the distance the sound of armored feet, desperately pushing away the terror and the need to clutch him close. “Don’t watch. Just wait for me. Wait for me for three days.”

Would it be enough? He could not say. But the sun had risen now, and there was no more silver light playing on Judas’ hands, no eerie gleam of silver playing around his throat. There was only the raw despair in his eyes and the sob as he fell to his knees, even as the other disciples began to wake.

“When the sun rises, wait for me,” he told him one last time as he allowed the soldiers to take him away.


End file.
